Anyone who’s known me for more than a
week probably knows I am a bookworm. Give me an hour of precious free time, and
I’ll quickly bury my head in the world of words.

It took years before my husband
finally realized that when I’m deep in a good story, he no longer exists to me.
And should he persist in trying to get my attention, he deserves the fury he
may unleash for pulling me so cruelly back to reality.

One of my best childhood memories was
the regular trips to the public library with my dad. He read Forbes and the stock pages of the
newspaper (remember when you had to wait a day to see your stock prices?),
while I perused the shelves, piling up as many books as was allowable to check
out for my age.

It’s no wonder then that one of my
goals as a mother was to teach my child to love reading. I’ve read to her since
she was born. Books are always under the Christmas tree. She was reading before
she went to kindergarten, and her love of books has blossomed.

Still, when it comes to bedtime
reading, she has always preferred to snuggle next to me in her bed as I read to
her, altering my voice to fit the characters. When I create suspense with
dramatic pauses and hushed whispers, she bounces about ready to jump from her
skin—unable to contain her excitement.

Our reading is an interactive
experience—me explaining words she doesn’t yet know, her asking rapid-fire
questions, both of us wondering out loud what will happen next. My husband
often asks if he needs to come in and separate us because it’s getting late and the
giggling is getting loud.

Then, the inevitable happened.

I had purchased her a four pack of Magic Treehouse booksfor her Kindle. She was hooked. For
four days, she read every moment she could, rapidly working her way through
them. At times, I’d speak to her and she wouldn’t answer. I understood—I simply
didn’t exist at that moment. She was on an adventure with Jack and Annie.

She would beg me to wake her early so
she could read before school. She would beg to stay up after our reading time. She
proclaimed her love of reading multiple times a day, stating that she, too, had
been bitten by the reading bug.

Mission accomplished! At the age of
7, my daughter fell in love hard and I couldn't have asked for a better suitor. It wasn’t until she asked if she could read by herself to finish the fourth
book instead of me reading to her that I understood the bittersweet momentousness
of the occasion.

Perhaps she could hear the subtle
disappointment in my voice as I said, “of course, you can read on your own.” She
quickly assured me that even though she wanted to read alone, she still loved
me. She still wanted me to read to her—another night—but that night she simply
wanted to finish her book.

The book lover in me rejoiced. How
many times have I woken with a reading hangover from “just one more chapter”?
The mother in me, however, was dealt quite a blow.

I may have led my daughter into the
magical worlds of Little House and Harry Potter, but she is ready to
venture new places on her own. The world of books is calling her, and my time as narrator is coming to an end. Reading is, after all, a solitary activity.

Except for a wonderful little thing
called book club. I’m already in the book club that doesn’t read (my dear
Denver girlfriends) and two others in Milwaukee. What’s one more?

Our mother-daughter book club is in
the works. It’s a big decision determining which book we will read first, but
my daughter is excited about the idea that we will read the same book at the
same time. I’ll let her choose what we read. I’m just along for the ride—hoping
that unlike in my other book clubs, I’ll get to snuggle up next to my fellow
member, happily enjoying an imaginary world side by side.

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Comments

Oh my gosh what a wonderful post. It brought tears to my eyes... The memories of reading to my own children and then having them "move on," but mostly the vision of Symone being bitten by the "reading bug.." Just beautiful Heidi. Hugs to both you book worms!

When we had Symone over Spring break, we stopped at a restaurant on our way up north. I had to smile as the girls read their menu and discussed what they were going to eat. I was very proud of their abilities but felt left out. They are growing up so fast. What a great idea though to had your own book club. I would love to here about what you are reading.

Love this Heidi!! I, too, just love reading with the kids, especially Brooklyn at this age and can't wait for her to be reading words on her own. I just glow inside when the kids sit down on the floor to read a book on their own :) three cheers for the reading bug!

How wonderful, Heidi! Mom and Dad used to sing to me before going to bed, and sometimes read or tell stories. Beautiful memories. And to this day, reading before bed can be my solace. You are such an amazing, nurturing mom. Hugs to you, dear friend.

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About me

I’m a 40-year-old woman with a darling young daughter, a long-term marriage and an established career. To onlookers, I have it all together. But in rare moments when I'm solo in the car and a throwback song comes on the radio, I sometimes have an overwhelming urge to drink myself silly, dance my ass off and make-out with strangers.
Read more...I’m not that young or foolish any more, but I also don’t feel old (despite increasing wrinkles). I am caught somewhere between young and old and I’m not the only one. This blog is for those of us who are still dancing queens yet, rather than yearning for the good old days, are wise enough to recognize that this crazy, in-between, complex time in our lives is life’s sweet spot.
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